Dethroned
by northboundtrains
Summary: Sometimes, Margaret enjoys being in charge. (PWP)


**This is a PWP one-shot that deals with Margaret topping, because it's one of my weaknesses. It's not implied, but this should be taking place a year or so into their marriage, when they are comfortable with each other and with their own pleasure. I initially wrote this for a friend, mainly because this fandom is seriously lacking in smut fics , but also because I wanted to experiment with my writing and I saw this as a nice opportunity. I hope you enjoy, feel free to leave a comment or to point out any errors. Thanks for reading!**

**Dethroned**

Somewhere at the back of her mind, Margaret is worried about how the weight of her body must be obstructing her husband while she is lying on his chest, her demanding kisses met with equal fervor. They are slowly losing themselves in each other; the sea of sheets around them is closing in, cool only in the places they haven't touched.

His hand is lodged in between their bodies, and her knee is bent at an awkward angle as he traces infinity symbols between her legs. She can feel him smile underneath her mouth every time she presses down. Their communication is brought forth nonverbally; they guide each other with gestures and sounds. That is, until she leans back, and his hand stills against her wetness.

"Are you ready?"

He has to ask her, because she still doesn't know how to word her desire; she doesn't think she ever will, not explicitly. Relieved, she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

"I think I am, yes."

Margaret sits back on her knees, straddles him, and helps him until he can push up inside of her. Once they are settled, she grinds against him, and there is something surprisingly encouraging about the look John gives her when she does that.

She holds up her hands, offering her palms to him with her knuckles turned skyward. He threads his fingers through hers, and she holds still, her thumb tracing the junction of his hand and wrist. There's just the sound of breathing, hers and his. In that moment of quiet tenderness, she is touched by something larger than her, something she cannot quite control. She avoids his questioning stare and redirects her attention to his hands, guiding them to her hips. He holds her, his fingers clutching. He needs her, she realizes.

She grinds again, and his bottom lip drops with a shaky exhale.

Eagerly, she tries to find a cadence that suits the both of them. Although she finds the angle quite delicious, she cannot always control the rhythm; her hips are not entirely familiar with this type of lovemaking yet. However, there is something rather satisfying and empowering about the position she has him in, for he can only stare up at her in wonder, with a blush on his skin and a haze clouding his face.

She bends forward and kisses his shoulders, his neck, his ear. When she finally reaches his mouth, he does nothing to hide his desperation. She feels his tongue against hers, retreating against her lips, then against her chin. She leans back, wiping the spot clean with her hand. He looks at her with an apologetic smile before dragging his mouth along her jaw.

She is properly distracted, now. He takes the opportunity to run his hands up her back, covering her shoulders like ephemeral wings, and down again to the end of her spine. His hands roam over her bottom before he digs his fingers into her flesh and pulls her closer.

The sensations he awakens are stronger than her will not to embarrass herself, and she moans. She hides her face against his neck in shame, and she wonders if she'll ever make peace with the sounds he coaxes from her time and time again.

"No, don't do that," he mumbles, "don't hide."

Margaret lifts her head.

"I need" he swallows, and for every bit of desire in his voice there is just as much shame, "I need to see your face."

His hand comes up to cup her cheek, his thumb against her lips. She opens her mouth a little, and when his hand doesn't give way, she applies her tongue generously against the pad of his thumb. His mouth becomes a thin line, and the noise that escapes him is not quite unlike her own moans.

With his other hand, still down the end of her spine, he presses her down again. She has not anticipated his retribution, and this time her reaction is louder, her hands clutching his shoulders. She sees his satisfied expression and shakes her head, unable to hide her smile.

She pushes herself up until she is sitting in her regal position again. His hands follow the path of her waist, her ribs, her breasts, but she will not allow him this opportunity. She captures his hands and puts them against her hips defiantly.

"Help me," she breathes, and although it isn't at all her intention to sound pleading, the true tone of her voice escapes neither of them. He accepts his occupation, helping her to find a satisfying rhythm.

Margaret reaches down, her fingers between her legs where her nerves are craving the manual stimulation.

She lets her face go along with the sparks of pleasure; they layer over each other whenever he hits her just right, whenever the friction on the inside and outside matches up perfectly. And yet she needs more, she always needs more. She is utterly selfish in that respect.

Her breathing grows uneven and mingles with wordless moans that signal her unavoidable elevation. When her muscles start tensing up, she loses all control over the way her hips rock. The build to her climax has been so agonizingly slow that everything comes together in something so overwhelming that Margaret, for a rare, cherished moment, loses all of her self-control.

Her peak is more powerful than it has ever been before, and it catches her by surprise, making her cry out without constraint while her head falls back and her mind blanks.

She barely even registers that John, too, succumbs underneath her.

As though there are no bones left in her limbs to keep her up she topples down against his chest, like a queen dethroned. Her hands shake, she needs more air than her lungs provide her, and her face glows. For a minute or so, all they can do is feel each other breathe.

Eventually, she finds the energy to fit her mouth to his as a last farewell to his body for tonight. She rolls over onto the mattress, her head back against her pillow, noticing the slickness of her skin for the first time.

John crawls up, takes a lost sheet in his hands, and tenderly wipes the hollow between her breasts clean. Margaret traps his hand against her ribcage, and he lays his cheek against her shoulder.

"I confidently stand by what I said just a few nights ago," she says, smiling lazily, still reveling in the aftermath of her ecstasy.

"What, that this is what I prefer over everything else? You know me so well," he teases.

"Admittedly, I enjoyed it quite well, of course."

"Yes, I could see that, and…hear it," his face grows serious, "I mean, you have never-"

He's referring to that last noise she made. Her face glows again, and she hurriedly presses her mouth against his.

"I know."


End file.
